Bury Our Dirty Roses
by Shooting Star Sky Saint
Summary: Snapped!America. "Your voice has chased away all the sanity in me." It was a long time coming, it was going to happen, Arthur and Francis just didn't expect him to be so... shattered. And now it's too late.


"Francis, who's this man?" Arthur had been cleaning off the Frenchman's overly large closet when he came across a photo buried far in the back and under numerous outfits.

While waiting for Francis to answer, Arthur observed the man's appearance. He was much taller than Francis, his hair was short and blonde with a little unruly strand sticking up in the middle, and he wore wire thin glasses that made Arthur wonder if he was older than he looked. His arm was around Francis and he was smiling greatly. They looked to be out on a lake, seeing his there was a fishing pole in the man's hand. Francis looked quite... wild. His hair was ruffled in every direction, his clothes looked soaked with water and mud, and when Arthur looked close enough there was a tiny little crab clinging to Francis's hair. Nonetheless, the Frenchman was grinning just as happily as the other man.

"That's Alfred...mon ami." Francis said after creeping up on Arthur.

"Bloody hell!" Arthur cringed but Francis only stared at the photo, his eyes light and nostalgic. Francis chuckled with a wave of his hair, "It was summer back then. Monsieur Alfred took me out on his boat to fish, needless to say I was... tres mal at it."

Arthur placed the name with the man. "You've never told me about him. Is he a friend of yours?"

Francis suddenly looked unsettled, his brows furrowed. "He was... a troubled man," he answered softly with a melancholy grin. "Without him, I never could've been with you."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "He looks so... rugged, and you were with a bloke like him?"

Francis winked and grinned, "Ah Monsieur, he was a very enthusiastic," then he chuckled and muttered, "very enthusiastic indeed..."

"That is not something you should be happy about right now !" Arthur shouted, angrily.

And it all started from that day. Maybe it was coincidence, but Arthur was never one to believe in occurrences happening at randomly set times.

Not like that mattered now, because here he was, sitting in a hole in a coffin with Francis shivering just as much as he was, and there was Alfred, standing outside the hole, right above them with a gun pointed right at him.

It was dark out, a perfect horror scene, with grave stones and whistling winds tensing the air. It was dark out, no one would hear them call for help. The moon was swollen and bright, illuminating their captor with shady lunar lights.

"Are you doing this just because I stole Francis away from you?" Arthur bravely asked even though his voice was cracking, "It's not mine or his bloody fault!"

"Arthur!" Francis hissed. But the Brit paid him no mind.

Alfred was glaring at Arthur the most, if he could call it glaring. His eyes were glazed and burning with hatred, but it was as if he was unfocused on Arthur directly. Alfred ran his hand wildly through his hair, ruffling it even further than it was a minute ago.

"Then whose fucking fault is it," he snarled.

Arthur wished dreadfully that he hadn't had even asked the question. But there was no turning back. With fury in his voice, Arthur growled, "Yours. You were the one who pushed him away."

The Brit saw Alfred's brow furrow, whether in confusion or anger he couldn't tell so he continued to talk. "Francis told me about what you did and how much of a lazy fat arse you are. You and your bloody addiction drove him away! There's only so much he can take and-"

"You thought I was fat?" Alfred addressed this to Francis who was trembling scared. "Damn, now all the shake weight gifts make sense, and you never let me try on your clothes..."

"A-Alfred, p-pl-please I'm pleading with you not to do this," Francis sobbed. The American slowly ebbed his gun to his side and looked at Francis, his eyes saddened and low and glazed over. Looking closer at him Francis could see marks running down Al's cheeks, stained a pale red. As if he had been crying for too long. It looked like he was shedding tears, even now.

"This isn't you."

"... it's not me. But I haven't really been "me" since you left. In fact, "I've" been... exploring, you could say, what makes Alfred F. Jones the way he is. And you know what I found," the blonde positioned his gun back at the couple. They tensed up, watching the gun and Alfred smiling at them. "A lot of deep, dark twisted reasons, instincts, emotions, and memories that should be kept hidden. **Away**. _Never shown_. Things that can drive anyone..."

Francis and Arthur watched the clear madman throw his head back and laugh like he had just told a joke. It was so casual and loud, a child's laugh of happiness at an inappropriate time. Alfred brought his gun back and scratched the side of his head with it.

"_Completely **i**ns**a**n**e**!"_

Frightened and equally uncomfortable, Arthur secretly prayed for the semi-automatic to go off, because it was their only chance of surviving this.

"HAHAHA! Seriously, I should probably be in an asylum for what I am!" Mockingly - Arthur knew - Alfred pulled the gun away from his head, and the brit cursed with a bite of his lip. "But then again... aw hell with it, you still loved me anyways, right. You still love me, I can see it in your eyes."

Arthur glanced at Francis, a spark of fearless determination boiled in him. Without thinking he pulled Francis into a tight, possessive hold and shouted at Alfred, "You think he still loves you, you bloody sociopathic arse-"

A gunshot sounded off like thunder, fierce and too fucking close. Francis gasped and pulled away from Arthur, the British man too shaken up to even flinch remained still in his place, eyes wide with shock and arms suspended in the air. It was like he was a puppet on strings, completely and utterly vulnerable.

From above Alfred clicked his tongue in a disappointed manner and wriggled his finger. "Leave room for Jesus, dudes."

Arthur shivered, he had to try reasoning with Francis's ex-lover if they were going to survive. This guy did have all intention on killing them. Cursing under his breath Arthur clenched his hands, looked at Alfred and briefly gasped.

How had he not seen _that_ before? Alfred's face had turned completely devoid of emotion, any sort of facial recognition ceased to exist on him. His eyes leered at Arthur with something dark, and forbidden, and... something unnatural. It was almost like Alfred F. Jones had become invisible, a ghost. It was oddly disturbing to say the least because the man was physically there, but not entirely... here.

Arthur wrenched himself away from staring any longer at the man, no longer able to. But then the American's voice rang out to him like an echo. "I still love you. So much. I hate that I love you still, because then I wouldn't have had to do this. But now I have to, and this is the end. See ya later, pervy geezer~"

"_Merde, n-no!_"

Another gunshot thundered and a body fell. It wasn't Arthur that was clear or Alfred's, so the body bleeding, lifeless, in the coffin next to Arthur was Francis Bonnefoy's.

Arthur had never seen a dead body in real life. Only on tv. So what else could he have done but scream and cry at the same time? The tears came fast and furious like a storm, and the fear was amplifying, contorting him like a tourniquet. He couldn't take it.

From above there came only silence, the sound of a zipper, and rain... yellow rain... Arthur didn't even think when he closed the coffin door, sealing both him and Francis inside from the whiz above. And then to have dirt suddenly thrown on him, for who knows how long, only confused Arthur further as to how did they end up with this?why did this have to happen?

"What're you doing?" Arthur managed to ask.

"Burying you alive," came Alfred's simple reply.

Arthur didn't know his heart could beat this fast. He began screaming and pushing against the lid but it wasn't bloody moving. From the barriers Arthur could still hear Alfred's monotone voice. "You'll have about 15 hours of air then you'll suffocate. Slowly. Now I know it's not DisneyWorld but think of the magical experience you'll have. Imagine, you're going to find out how long you can hyperventilate for. You're going to smell Francis's corpse rot because of the lack of oxygen. You're living the dream, Arthur." Arthur cried out, panicked and pleading. "The dream you _stole_ from **_me_**."

Alfred's voice was low and another click of his gun resounded. Arthur forced himself to be silent as he heard Alfred say in a soft, childish tone: "But that's okay now, because I stole it back. _Payback's a bitch, isn't it_?"

And then a gunshot thundered again, and a body fell.

Arthur didn't want to believe it. Because it was unspeakable. Maybe someone would come to save him. Find him?

"Hello? Alfred?"

No response.

"Hello...?"

Arthur's fear stricken eyes shifted to Francis, who were still bleeding with his mouth gaped open, eyes glazed over, dull, skin turning pale, hair-

_"Hello!"_


End file.
